


out of office

by arcanine



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Getting Together, M/M, Office AU, Pranks, Rivalry, Sexually Frustrated Co-workers to Lovers, british biscuit bingo, idiots to lovers, stars and wine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:27:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24718267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arcanine/pseuds/arcanine
Summary: Simon hates that he’s at a disadvantage, height-wise. That Baz can look down on him. He’s been doing that since the first day he started working here, and that’s how they ended up like this. Dedicating at least half of their working day to driving each other mental.[He stole Simon's stapler. He stole his computer. But Baz Pitch will never steal his dignity.]
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 91
Kudos: 276





	1. the laptop incident

It's a sunny Wednesday afternoon when Simon returns from his lunch break to find that his computer has been replaced with a child-sized pink laptop. And not even a working one at that. A useless toy with Barbie's face plastered on it that spurts out letters of the alphabet in a cheery American voice when he touches it.

A _loud_ voice. He can’t make it stop. Barbie makes it all the way to the letter _P_ before Simon works out how to shut her up. He slams the lid shut - fingers pressing down on the glittery plastic like it’s a ticking time bomb - and looks around the office.

He's definitely got the right desk. All the evidence is there - his unkillable spider plant and his chewed-up pens. His favourite mug with the dregs of this morning's brew still inside. It's definitely his desk, but his computer is gone. Which is a bit of a weird one really.

Simon checks under his desk. He slides open his drawers, one by one, just to confirm that he didn't brush his whole PC in there by accident this morning. He glances around the office, half considering that this is some mad new initiative introduced by Mage to increase productivity, but everything else looks normal. There are only two possible explanations here. One: Simon’s being replaced by a tech-savvy five year old and no one bothered to tell him. Or two: someone took it.

There's only one person who would stoop so low. Someone who sits right next to him. Someone who's _this_ close to overtaking Simon's record-high charity sales pitches and stealing the tasty commission bonus he's been slaving away to secure. Someone who uses his smooth, posh, sexy phone voice to convince people across the country to donate to save the animals, who makes Nanas across the nation blush and swoon.

Someone who's about to get murdered. Simon will do it right here. Wrestle him to the ground when he gets back from lunch and just be done with it. ( _Carefully_. The cleaners will go mad if he stains the office carpet.)

This is a new low. Even worse than that time he hid Simon's Chocolate Digestives. Baz Pitch is not going to get away with this.

He just needs to investigate. He needs to think about this logically. If there was a crime, there must be witnesses. And though half of the office are still at lunch, there are people around. People like… _Agatha._

Simon approaches her desk with caution. He wouldn't normally go chat to her specifically. They tend to avoid each other outside of work since they had that one really awkward date last year, but this is an emergency.

"Agatha," Simon says, but she carries on typing. " _Agatha_!"

Agatha stops typing and brushes back her long blonde hair to remove an AirPod. She seems highly inconvenienced, eyeing up Simon impatiently. “Yes?"

"You were here, right? Over lunch. Were you here the whole time?"

"I was. And I’m very busy. So if you don't mind-"

"I just want to know if you saw him. Was he skulking around? Did you see that bastard take my computer?"

“Who?"

" _Baz,"_ Simon hisses, because isn't it obvious? "Baz Pitch. Did you see him messing with my desk?"

“No. But staring at your desk isn't exactly high on my list of priorities."

Simon waits for her to elaborate. To drop some detail that will blow open this whole investigation, like " _but I did smell that fancy cologne he wears lingering in the air ten minutes ago..._ " or “ _here, let me hack into the security footage for you._ ” But Agatha just blinks at him like he's chewing gum stuck to her shoe.

"Are you done?” she asks. “I have a lot of work and frankly, your rivalry with Basil bores me to tears."

"Right. Cheers," Simon says, and she plants her earbud back in and goes back to typing.

Fuck it. Whatever. Who needs a witness anyway? Baz has a motive. It must've been him. With only 3 hours and 15 minutes to go before the final sales numbers for the month are totalled, there’s no other explanation.

Simon sinks into his chair and glares at Baz’s empty desk, willing him to come back from lunch. He’s probably at that sushi bar down the road. Simon’s seen him there before, sitting near the window, book propped open, lips curled down in a frown. He’s always pouting. Constantly. Simon’s not sure he even realises he's doing it. He always thought evil villains would laugh more really - you know, ham it up, cackle and all that - but Baz is so slick about it. So smooth and efficient that no one would ever suspect him. Except Simon, of course. Sometimes, he thinks he’s the only one around here who can see sense.

He's ready when Baz gets back. He corners him when he’s barely settled into his chair. Just slams the Barbie laptop down next to his keyboard and waits for him to react.

"You think you're so funny, don't you?”

Baz's gaze flicks from Simon to the laptop, examining it with a faultless lack of recognition. "Pardon?"

“You're so threatened by how good I am that you have to go and sabotage me. Where is it? Give it back. You're not going to get away with this!"

Baz unlocks his computer calmly. Bloody bastard, showing off his working non-Barbie technology. Rubbing it in Simon's face.

“Christ, Snow, have you finally lost it? I've barely returned from lunch yet here you are, accosting me like I'm some Scooby-Doo villain."

"You're not fucking funny. I've got work to do. Just hand it over."

“Hand what over?”

“My computer!” Simon snarls.

They're attracting attention again. Simon hears a sigh from somewhere nearby, and he swears someone else mutters, _“at it again._ ” That’s the worst thing about offices. People are so nosey, always sniffing out the faintest bit of drama.

“Your computer?” Baz gestures towards his gloriously minimalist work desk. "And where do you think I’m hiding that?”

"I dunno! Up your arse, maybe?"

Baz stands. He makes a show of patting himself down and checking his back pockets and Simon wishes he hadn’t mentioned it. Why did he have to go and draw attention to Baz’s arse? Stupid Baz showing off how stupidly well his tight grey trousers fit.

"Nope," Baz says. "Doesn't appear to be there."

Simon plants his hand on the desk in front of him and leans in, cornering Baz against it. It's a little difficult to set an intimidating tone when the vibrations make Barbie start blasting out _Mary Has a Little Lamb_ , but he does his best. "I know you've got it."

"Do you?" Baz arches a perfectly shaped eyebrow. "Or are you making baseless accusations because you're threatened by the fact that I'm clearly superior?"

Simon hates that he’s at a disadvantage, height-wise. That Baz can look down on him. He’s been doing that since the first day Simon started working here, and that’s how they ended up like this. Dedicating at least half of their working day to driving each other mental.

He doesn't even know why Baz hates him so much. Maybe it's because he's the only one on the charity sales team who can actually give him a run for his money. Sure, Baz can say all the right stuff, but Simon can get by just as well with some humble Northern charm and a vast and spanning knowledge of all the endangered animals who need saving. He's good at memorising stuff. Good at pitching stuff to people who care rather than going for a cheap, hard sell. They're always fighting for the top spot on the leaderboard. No one can sell like they can. They’re kind of unstoppable. When they’re not sabotaging each other, that is.

And Baz has won this round of sabotage. Simon can see the smug satisfaction in his cool, grey eyes. He’s guilty as hell, but Simon can’t prove a thing. God, Baz Pitch drives him fucking nuts.

"Come on," Simon pleads, because he’s getting desperate. “You know I'm gonna get in trouble if I'm not logged on when Mage gets back.”

"Best get looking then. I'd help you, but… I'm afraid I have targets to meet."

Baz smiles and it's all menace and nice teeth. Simon wonders if he ever had braces, or if his teeth just lined themselves up like that, falling into place like every hair on his stupid, perfect head.

"I'll get you back for this one," Simon growls. "Just you wait."

" _Sing with me! A! B! C_!" Barbie's voice chirps, as Simon smacks the desk again and storms off.

***

When Snow stomps towards the kitchen (to stress eat Custard Creams, no doubt) Baz settles back down into his chair. They really must stop this. It's _terribly_ childish.

He digs his teeth into his lip to try curb his laughter.

***

Simon finds his computer in the cleaner's cupboard, nestled behind a mountain of industrial-sized loo rolls. By then, it’s too late. The sales award. The commission bonus. The cheap bottle of prosecco from Tesco Express. They all fall into the evil grasps of Basilton bloody Pitch.

***

"Do you ever stop and think, _am I taking things too far?_ " Penny asks when she arrives home and finds absolute chaos in the living room of their shared flat.

Simon looks up. He's sitting in a messy pile of wrapping paper, and Penny knows from the glint in his eye that this isn't some grand display of altruism. It's Basil. It always is with Simon. Despite the strips of sellotape dangling from his sleeve and the edge of their coffee table, he bites a fresh piece off the roll and attaches it to the tiny parcel in front of him. Then he tosses it aside and grabs another… _teabag_?

"What do y'mean?" He asks. He rips off another piece of wrapping paper with his bare hands (the scissors are right there, Simon!) and starts folding it around his next victim.

"Well," Penny says slowly, using the tone she always reserved for when she walked in on a younger sibling scribbling on the wall. "Can you tell me what you're doing?"

"Gift wrapping." Simon gives one a sniff and then crinkles his nose. "Can you believe anyone even drinks these? Doesn't Mango and Bergamot green tea sound disgusting?"

"But why," Penny asks, trying her best to remain patient. "Why are you doing this?"

Simon shrugs. "Art project?"

"Simon."

"Alright. Alright. I'm trying to get back at Ba- erm. _Someone_ who hid my computer in the cleaner's cupboard."

Penny takes a breath. She made a little suggestion that they stop mentioning Basil in their flat to try and get Simon to stop bringing his workplace stress home, but he's already finding ways around it. She considered a Baz jar, but if she charged Simon a pound every time he mentioned Basil, he'd never be able to pay his rent. He’d be totally skint by the end of the week.

She summons her best disapproving look. “Is this really the best way to retaliate?”

"Yeah," Simon says. “Bet it'll proper wind him up. He'll be crying in the staff room like, _oh, my fingers are too long and delicate to unwrap these tiny parcels, I can't possibly drink my pretentious tea ever again."_

Penny just shakes her head. "I love you," she says, "but you need help.”

"I do!" Simon shouts as she heads off to the kitchen. "Come wrap teabags with me!"

***

Alright, Simon will admit that the whole teabag thing is a bit pathetic. But he’s running out of ideas. This whole thing has been on-going for months and the best he’s ever done is make Baz ten minutes late by pushing the buttons for every floor when they were in the lift together one morning. And even then, that backfired. Because not only did Simon have to spend extra time with a whiny, bitchy Baz Pitch, he was also ten minutes late.

Penny keeps telling him to drop it and be the _bigger person,_ but how can he, when Baz keeps antagonising him? When he was the one who started all this.

He was one of the first people Simon met when he arrived here, fresh out of uni and ready to change the world. (Or, you know, to earn enough money to cover his half of the rent and pay for his phone contract.) Mage dropped him off at the empty desk beside Baz on his first day, and Simon was honestly kind of taken aback. (Fit bloke. Nice hair. Great posture.) Simon smiled at him all friendly, as you do. And Baz’s expression soured from the moment Mage asked him to train him up.

It’s no secret that Baz hates Davy Mage. He’s always having a moan about how he’s bigoted and old fashioned, how he should be training new staff himself instead of swanning off constantly on out of office business. Maybe that’s why he seemed so affronted about being stuck with Simon. Because Mage made a big fuss about how he hand-picked him, how he was his special new recruit. But that was no excuse for the way Baz trained him up. He dropped a thick folder with colour coded dividers on Simon’s desk on his first day and just expected him to memorise it. He acted like every question was an inconvenience. He rebuffed every attempt at being friendly with curt replies from the absolute get-go. It’s like he _wanted_ to be hated or something.

Things got even worse when Simon had his brief thing with Agatha. Baz made snide comments about inappropriate conduct every time they chatted near his desk. He left a passive-aggressive post-it note on Simon's monitor about unprofessional flirting in the workplace, and then another one about sandwich crumbs on the carpet. Simon retaliated by leaving ten post-it notes on Baz’s monitor. He should've taken a photo. Hung it in a gallery somewhere. It was an absolute work of art. An array of rainbow colours, framing the top and bottom of his screen, a single word on each: _What is your problem? Why are you such a twat?_

The one that said _twat?_ must've been Baz’s favourite because he kept it. Simon found it on his jacket one evening. _After_ he'd spent ten minutes of walking and twenty minutes on the tube with it stuck to his back.

Things kind of just escalated from there. And now, life is a constant warzone. It’s a battlefield. Let your guard down for a second, and you end up with shoes full of custard. (Not that that’s ever actually happened.) (But maybe it’s a good idea…) (How will he get Baz to take his shoes off, though?) Simon's requested to swap desks at least five times now, and he's been turned down every time. "A little rivalry is motivational," Mage said, the last time he asked. “I’m sure that you can handle it.”

Baz Pitch is not motivational. He's _distracting_. Sitting next to him is a nightmare. He's always raising his eyebrows every time he secures a sale. And he twists his hair around his fingers when he's deep in thought, which makes one bit of hair much wavier than the rest and Simon's always dying to reach over and straighten it out, and speaking of reaching over. Sometimes Baz just takes Simon's stapler without asking, but he’s never refilled the staples. Not _once._ And Baz loves stationery. He has a pen with his full name engraved on it. If anyone respects that sanctity of a filled stapler, it’s him!

He does it on purpose. Simon knows he does. Because every time Simon makes the long trek to the stationery cupboard to get more staples, something bad happens. Last time, he changed Simon’s desktop background to a fake error message and then helpfully suggested he call IT to come and fix it. (They sent Penny. She worked it out in three seconds and gave Simon an absolutely despairing look. It was _so_ embarrassing.) And even then, people didn't believe that it was Baz. He complained to Rhys about it in the break room, he acted like _Simon_ was the one being paranoid. (“It could’ve been anyone," he said, shrugging his shoulders. “Everyone knows your password is _ilikecake69_.”)

Yeah, Baz is the worst. He's just so. Fucking. _Infuriating_. He loves making Simon look like a prick, and it’s awful, never knowing what he'll do next, having to look over his shoulder constantly and check his Pret sarnie wasn't poisoned while he nipped to the loo.

It's a tiring game, but at least it makes the days go fast. Simon can't imagine work without it.

***

Baz would kill for a working life that doesn't feature Simon Snow. Actually murder and get thrown in prison just to finally be rid of him. When they lead Baz to the stand and ask him why he committed such a heinous crime, Baz knows exactly what he'd say. " _He's an absolute nightmare, Your Honour. Why don't you try sitting next to him?"_

It’s like working with a puppy. A puppy who’s also Hansel and Gretel combined because, of course, he leaves a trail of crumbs wherever he goes. He's constantly eating. He won’t stop fidgeting. He chews on everything and leaves teeth marks in pens. (Not just his pens. Baz’s expensive pens, which he borrows without asking.) He’s messy and infuriating and he’s absolutely adorable _,_ though Baz would rather crawl into an oven and burn to a crisp than admit that. He’s full of life. He needs two walks a day. Baz desperately wants to take him home and keep him.

But he's not an animal. He's a gorgeous man who runs his fingers through his curls approximately five hundred times a day, and Baz can’t stop staring at him.

Because he fancies the pants off him. Literally. He’s had multiple fantasies about Snow without pants, all of which were extremely unsuitable for the workplace. He almost choked on his tea the other day, watching him devour a packet of cheesy Wotsits. _Wotsits_ , for God’s sake. He had cheese dust on his mouth for half an hour, and Baz couldn't stop thinking about licking it off. And that one time when he wore a t-shirt that he’d clearly shrunk in the wash and kept stretching and showing off strips of his golden skin? Torturous. _Dreadful_. Baz almost went home sick because he was so overcome with the desire to drop to his knees and press his mouth against it. (His skin, that is. His soft stomach. Anywhere Snow would let him.)

Somedays, he’s the only thing that makes Baz get out of bed in the morning. The thought of seeing him. Opposing him. Winding him up and watching him explode.

Baz loves him so much that it actually hurts.

And that's why he has to go.

***

Baz always takes a break at 3.15pm. Goes to the toilet (Simon followed him there once, just to check) and then goes into the kitchen to make his tea.

Simon's waiting in the empty kitchen from 3.07, leg bouncing in anticipation. He’s staring at his phone, literally watching the minutes creep by. It's not that he _cares_ what Baz does or anything. He just wants to see his face when he finds the teabags, that's all.

He jumps off his chair when he sees Baz approaching and swings open the fridge door. It’s all chill here. Nothing to see. Just a bloke showing the usual amount of interest in thirteen half-empty pints of milk. Simon counts to ten before he turns from the fridge in mock surprise, trying to hide his grin.

“Alright knobcheese?” he says breezily.

Baz just blinks. He doesn’t even react to the insult.

"Falling a bit behind, aren’t you?" Simon says as he strolls towards him. “I’m way ahead of you this week.”

"Mm. Well done you," Baz says, and he sounds distracted. Out of it. He turns to open the cupboard.

"Come to make a cuppa?" Simon prompts, but Baz just shakes his head. Simon’s smile falters. Baz _always_ makes a cuppa at 3.15. It’s his daily routine.

"Emergency biscuit run," Baz says, pulling a packet from the cupboard. He turns back to Simon and holds them up. They’re posh biscuits. Viennese Sandwich fingers from M&S. "Want one?"

Simon jerks back in surprise. Something's definitely not right here. Baz has never offered him food before. He's sat at his desk eating posh grapes or sneaking crisps from under the table, leaving a lingering telltale scent of Salt & Vinegar, and he's never offered Simon as much as a scrap. 

Simon eyes him up suspiciously. “Did you poison them?”

“Yes,” Baz says dryly. “I laced them with laxatives and then factory resealed the packet myself.”

Simon narrows his eyes further.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Snow. Of course, I didn’t poison them. That would be a waste of perfectly good biscuits.”

“Oh yeah?” Simon says. “Prove it.”

“Prove it?”

Simon steps closer. “Prove it.”

Baz keeps his eyes fixed on Simon as he slides open the packet. He pulls a biscuit out and brings it to his thin, pink lips and Simon watches him bite into it. Watches him eat the whole thing. It’s pretty weird, to be honest. Like he’s watching something intimate. But he refuses to look away.

“There," Baz says. "Happy?"

He's still holding out the packet. This feels like a trap. Baz is seducing him with food, and Simon doesn’t know how to resist. He’s too weak. He wasn’t made to pass this test. A tasty biscuit is still a tasty biscuit, even in the hands of nemesis. Simon weighs up his options briefly (poison bad, biscuits _good_ ) and his stomach wins out. It's tastes so good. He can't regret it.

"Take more if you want," Baz says. "I know you only eat them in multiples of five."

Simon polishes off another three, but he doesn’t feel good about it. Baz is definitely plotting something. Is it a distraction technique? Is someone clingfilming his chair? This would be a great way to keep Simon away from his desk.

But Baz doesn't look like an evil genius right now. He looks kind of... defeated. Flat. Not his usual self at all.

Simon frowns again. “Why are you being nice to me?” 

Baz just sighs wearily. "I don't know. Maybe I'm tired. Maybe I don't have the energy for all this."

Simon almost presses his hand against Baz’s forehead, just to check he’s not burning up. Something's really not right here. When has Baz ever skipped his herbal tea for sugary snacks _and_ admitted defeat? Is he sick? Is he dying?

"Hey, uh. Are you okay?" Simon asks. "You're acting kinda-"

"I need to get back to work." Baz pushes past him, still clutching at his Viennese Sandwich fingers.

Simon just stares after him.

Well. That was weird.

***

“Can you believe he didn’t even notice?”

Simon leans on the wall near Penny’s desk at 5.01pm watching her pack up her stuff. He spent three days waiting for some kind of reaction, but since the whole biscuit thing, Baz has barely even glanced his way. Simon's come in every morning to find his office chair untampered with - still sitting at exactly the perfect height - and honestly, it's kind of freaking him out.

“The teabags,” Simon clarifies because Penelope doesn’t ask. “Did you see him skulking around or muttering about how smart I am or...”

“Do you ever stop and think that maybe Basil’s world doesn’t revolve around you? That he’s probably got other things on his mind right now.”

Simon frowns. “Like what?”

“Don’t you check your emails? Did you not get the leaving party invite?”

“What leaving party?”

“Basil’s,” Penny says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Simon stops dead still. “What are you talking about, Pen?”

“You really don't know? I thought you'd be ecstatic. He’s got a new job, Simon. He’s handed in his notice.”

Simon's stomach plummets hard. He reaches out for Penny’s desk - just to steady himself - because he feels like he’s been shoved from a moving plane.

"Oh." He says, and his voice comes out flat. “Probably just missed me off the invite list. We’re not exactly mates, are we?”

“That’s true.” Penny swings her bag over her shoulder. “And it’s not like you’d want to go anyway. Shall we head home?”

“No,” Simon says, so forcefully that Penny looks alarmed. “I mean. I’ll meet you downstairs in a min, okay? I forgot my, um. _Something_.”

It’s a terrible excuse, but Penny doesn’t stop Simon as he charges across the office. When he reaches their desks Baz is already gone, but that’s for the best, isn't it? What was he planning on doing anyway? Storming over and asking why he didn’t inform him personally? Begging him not to go so they can carry on their childish prank war?

They’re nothing to each other. Absolutely nothing.

But they sit next to each other every day, don't they? They shared Viennese Sandwich fingers in the kitchen the other day and that was nice. (Well, _weird_. But nice too.) You'd think that he'd have the decency to mention it. Baz is pretty into traditional stuff, obsessed with writing his emails all formally and that. So why? Why wouldn't he say something?

Simon drops down his desk. He knocks a pot of pens to the floor when his arse hits the table, but he doesn't care. Because his chest is constricting so tightly he can barely breathe.

Baz is leaving. _Leaving._ He’ll never have to see his smarmy face again.

Baz is leaving and Simon should be absolutely elated.

So why does he feel so fucking crushed about it?


	2. rivals on the roof

If Simon watches another episode of _Come Dine With Me,_ Penny might genuinely move out. Yes, she may struggle to afford her rent, but at least she won't have to sit through any more cringey dinner parties. Simon’s arguing with the TV today, which means he’s in a particularly bad mood. Penny can hear him grumbling from the kitchen.

“I can’t believe that,” he says when she walks into the living room holding two cups of tea. “Her Creme Brulee was outstanding and they scored her a _six_? What a fucking joke.”

Penny places a cup of tea delicately beside him and reaches for the remote control. Simon gives her a wild-eyed stare as she turns the volume down a few notches. He’s been like this ever since he found out Basil was leaving. Barely sleeping. Eating even more than usual. Flopped on the sofa and reacting like a feral animal if anyone tries to turn off the television. She never thought he’d handle it like this. She thought he’d be blasting out _Celebration_ on repeat. But she doesn’t have the energy to try to delve into the reasoning behind it. Sometimes boys can be so confusing.

“So,” she says, as she settles down onto the arm of the sofa, clutching at her own tea. “Have you thought any more about the party tomorrow?”

Simon grunts and sinks further into the sofa.

“I know you said you weren’t going to go, but I think it might be good for you. Everyone's gonna be there. You might not even have to talk to him at all.”

Simon grunts again.

“I know I’d certainly appreciate the company. And who knows... it might even be fun. And if it’s not, then at least there’ll be free food.”

Simon perks up just the tiniest amount. "I do like free food.”

"Just imagine, Simon. Imagine all the lonely sandwiches that might go to waste if you're not there to eat them."

Simon frowns. She can practically see him debating the pros and cons of Baz vs Sandwiches. “I’ll think about it…” he says reluctantly. “But I’d only be doing it for them.”

Penny gives him an encouraging smile. This might be exactly what Simon needs. To let go of this whole Basil thing and move on. Maybe he’ll take up a hobby when this is all over. Perhaps seeing him off might even lead to some pleasant closure. Or maybe it'll end with a punch up by the photocopier. It’s risky, but Penny can’t let Simon wallow on the sofa forever, can she?

And no matter what happens. Even if it all ends in flames. At least it won’t involve any more _Come Dine With Me._

***

Baz knows it’s terribly uncouth to be desperate to leave your own leaving party, but here he is, the most ungrateful bastard in the universe. All he wanted was a quiet drink. Not some over the top excuse for Mage to give speeches because he loves the sound of his own voice. He tried to initiate a conversation with Baz and Dev about different brands of filing cabinets earlier, and Baz wanted to die. No one’s paying him to withstand this anymore. He almost left right then.

Everyone wrote well wishes on Baz's leaving card, but no one had the decency to point out that hosting it here, in the very office where they spend almost 40 hours a week, was a terrible idea. Baz shouldn’t begrudge it. Someone went to the effort to decorate their conference room and put up a couple of banners, especially for him. They laid out a variety of finger food as vast as sausage rolls and Party Rings and a messy selection of alcoholic beverages. But none of them had enough brainpower to suggest the pub. A place that was designed to host this kind of function. Instead, they invited everyone and their dogs to cram into the office. (Literally. Wellbelove brought her King Charles Spaniel.)

Everyone including Snow. Though he’s doing a spectacular job of keeping his distance.

Baz didn’t expect to see him here. He didn’t plan for all this. He spent the majority of his last day sneaking as many glances as he could get away with - memorising every mole and every freckle - knowing that they’d never meet again. When Snow left the office at 5pm, Baz spent a good ten minutes hiding in the bathroom, despairing over the pain of losing something he’d never even come close to having.

And then Snow had the nerve to return with Bunce a few hours later, ruining the emotional climax of Baz’s dramatic wallowing. Absolutely bloody typical.

Things have been particularly strange, these last few weeks. They’ve hardly tortured each other at all. Baz has been too busy preparing to hand over his role, and Snow’s been moping around like a dejected puppy. He’s spent his days alternating between frowning and bobbing his mouth wordlessly like a malfunctioning goldfish. (Baz can hardly imagine why. Perhaps his favourite brand of butter has been discontinued.) He's been acting strange, and it’s so much less fun to kick him when he’s down. Baz hasn’t even been in the mood to come in early and change the height on his office chair. What’s the point if Snow doesn’t turn red and stomp around and force himself into Baz’s space, so close that he can imagine, just briefly, what would happen if he got closer.

 _No_. He shouldn't think like that. If he'd spent less time focusing on Simon Snow and more on his actual life outside the office, then it wouldn’t have come to this. Then he might have actually made it to date number three with the perfectly nice man he’d been seeing, instead of being dumped (outside a Wetherspoons pub, of all places) for being “unhealthily obsessed with that one guy from work.” (He just made a throwaway comment about how Snow practically radiates Wetherspoons energy, that’s all. It’s not like he openly admitted he wanted to shag him on a bed of rose petals.) (Though he wouldn’t say no if the offer was there...) (Rose petals are entirely unnecessary. If Snow wanted it, Baz would've dropped to his knees just about anywhere. The conference room. The office kitchen. He’d eradicate all his standards for him.)

The Wetherspoons incident was the final push. The last scrap of evidence in the damning case against him. He needs to get over this. To rid himself of the painful affection he holds for the gorgeous imbecile he spends every day pining over. To stop his compulsive urge to torture Snow like they’re in primary school.

But the closer he gets to the reality of leaving, the more it hurts. The more it feels _real_. They’ll never see each other again. He'll never hear Snow crack a painfully adorable joke on the phone or see him first thing in the morning, yawning and rubbing sleep from his eyes. It’s laughable, isn’t it? They’ve spent so long driving each other mad, and yet it aches so much to let him go.

By the time the sun has set, Baz has reached his limit. People are getting more unruly. The music’s getting louder and their voices are more shrill and Baz can’t take much more of it. He’s sick of coworkers patting him on the back and pretending they care about what he does next, or trying to drag him into gossiping about Charlotte's maternity leave.

That’s why he sneaks out of the conference room and takes the lift up to the roof, clutching the emergency cigarettes he’d cleared out of his desk earlier. He just wants to escape for five minutes so he can catch his breath. So he can gather the mental energy to tolerate this for a little longer, until it’s socially acceptable to leave.

He feels calmer the second he steps out into the fresh air. It’s indisputably the nicest part of the whole building - a flat open rooftop with an excellent view of Canary Wharf. The perfect place to eat your lunch in the summer, if you don’t mind being joined by the stench of nicotine and the bores from third-floor finance. Baz cranes his neck up, looking for the stars, but all he sees are clouds. At least it's not raining. At least it's a warm summer night.

He’ll miss the roof. It's a good place to think. Unless the person you're trying so desperately not to think about is nursing a can of lager alone and gazing out at the bright lights of London like he’s posing for an Instagram photo, of course.

Baz stomach flips the moment he sees him. He thinks about turning back, but it’s too late. Snow’s already turning towards the sound of his footsteps. They face each other from across the roof and Baz doesn’t miss the way his expression hardens. He didn’t want to do this. He just wanted to smoke and feel sorry for himself. He didn’t want to have this fight.

It’s Snow who takes the first step forwards. “What are you doing here?” he asks. “Shouldn’t you be down there listening to everyone chat about how the sun shines out of your arse or something?”

Baz sighs. "And here I was hoping I could leave without having to go through this tiresome scenario again."

“Yeah? Well - well so was I."

Baz drinks in the sight of him, muscles tensed, radiant in the moonlight, and he knows he's hit rock bottom. Because Simon Snow looks mesmerising, even with a can of Carling clutched between his fingers. He looks so beautiful. Like something Baz will desperately miss.

Baz sighs again. "I'm not here to antagonise you. If you want to know the truth, then… I’m hiding.”

"From who?"

“Everyone,” Baz says. “But in particular,” he glances over to the door, just to make sure he wasn't followed, "Liz and Sarah."

Snow blinks and his hard expression relaxes just a bit. "Oh. I... I actually don't blame you for that."

"They had me cornered for at least twenty minutes before. Telling me all about Charlotte's maternity leave."

"Cheating the system, isn't she? _And_ she's a bit old to be having another one?"

Baz raises his eyebrows. "They got to you too?"

Snow smiles sheepishly. "Why do you think _I'm_ up here."

Baz wants to smile back, but he's not sure it's permissible. He makes a sad attempt and he’s sure the results are most likely terrifying. Snow takes another sip of his lager.

"They fancy you, you know,” he says. “Both of 'em."

“No?” Baz crinkles his nose in distaste. “Do they really?”

"Yeah, I heard 'em chatting about it the other day. Like, _how much tit is too much tit_ and _who's gonna get his number before he goes?_ "

"Christ," Baz says. "Well, that settles it. I'm not going back down there.”

“You’re gonna stay up here? But… but _I’m_ here.”

"Oh. Right.” Baz takes a step back. “You were here first. Um… carry on. As you were. Don't let me disturb you."

"No,” Snow says quickly. “I mean - I don’t own the roof or anything. It’s just... isn't it the last thing you want? Being stuck up here with me?"

"Honestly, Snow? You could read me the terms and conditions of your phone contract and it'd probably be the most scintillating conversation I've had all night. And besides…” Baz hesitates. “I hardly see much point in prolonging our rivalry. I’m leaving, aren’t I? It’s over."

Snow shifts his weight from one foot to the other, his expression unreadable in the dim light. "Yeah. Guess it is.”

The reality of _leaving_ weighs so heavy on Baz’s chest that he can feel it pressing on his lungs. He’s sure this feeling will fade with time. That he’ll look back at all this and laugh one day, or ideally, forget it all entirely - the customers and the office and Simon. _Please_ let him forget about Simon.

“Look,” Snow says. “I can't believe I'm saying this to you of all people, but it _is_ your last night, so I’m not gonna kick off if you wanna hide here. But I swear to God, if you're setting me up for one last prank then I'll push you off this roof. It's a long way down, you know."

Baz presses his hand earnestly to his chest. "I’m not. I swear it."

“Oh, and… one more thing.”

“Yes?”

"I’m pretty sure it's illegal to be standing around empty-handed at your own party. You need a drink.”

“And where do you propose I get one of those? I’d rather die than share your lukewarm Carling."

"No. Not this. C’mere.”

Simon beckons him towards the other side of the roof, and all Baz can do is trail helplessly behind him. He bobs down to open the scruffy backpack he always brings into the office and pulls out a bottle of wine.

"Where did you get that?"

“Oh. Penny forced me to buy something to add to the stash downstairs but I, er... must've forgotten to put it on the table.”

“Forgot?” Baz repeats, and Simon shifts guiltily.

“Alright, alright, I kept it for myself. But there was so much stuff down there already! I was just helping everyone’s hangovers. You know you’d do the same thing if it was my leaving party.”

“I wouldn't dream of it. I’m devastated you think so little of me. That you’d withhold your local cornershop’s finest vintage from my esteemed co-workers.”

“Oh shut up. Do you want free wine or not?”

Baz squints at the bottle. There’s just enough light to read the label. It’s red. Shiraz. Probably cost £5.99. And worst of all... it’s a _screwcap._

“Tell me you at least brought glasses,” Baz says wearily.

“Did I fuck.” Simon grins, opening the bottle and holding it out. “Drink up.”

Baz doesn't ask why Simon abandoned Bunce to come drink on the roof alone. He doesn’t ask why he’s offering him kindness when all they've ever done is fight. He can have this, can't he? For the briefest of moments. One final excuse to be near him before he leaves all this behind.

Baz accepts the wine. He sips it straight from the bottle like a common animal, and it's disgusting. It tastes like acidic Ribena that was distilled by blind goats.

But Snow smiles, and Baz feels like he’s passed some sort of test.

“So… truce?” he says.

Baz smiles back. He can’t help himself. "Truce."

***

"So where exactly _did_ you get the laptop?"

Simon never thought he'd find himself here. Sitting on hard concrete on a warm night with _Baz,_ the sky stretched out above them, endless and inky blue _._ Baz's long legs are extended, ankles crossed neatly, and there’s a blotch of red wine that dripped onto one of the butterflies on his fancy shirt. Simon’s never seen him look better. He looks more relaxed than he has in weeks. Simon wonders if this is the _real_ Baz, or maybe it’s _all_ the real him - the over-dramatic sneering sandwich-crumb opposing dickhead and the chill Baz here. Maybe people aren’t just evil or perfect. Maybe it’s more complicated than that.

This whole thing is pretty fucking weird. It’s awkward and it's nerve-wracking and it's terrifying because Simon knows he could say the wrong thing at any moment and shatter this delicate ceasefire. It’s weird, but he can’t fault it. It’s _nice_.

"I have three sisters," Baz says. "Although, I must say they've outgrown Barbie by now."

"I was raging, you know. Absolutely fucking fuming."

"I noticed. It was extremely difficult to keep a straight face when you hassled me about it."

“D'you know I'm barred from the other floors now? The security guy saw me skulking around on the cameras and he thought I was robbing the place. He thought my ID badge was fake."

Baz laughs, and it's annoying how good it looks on him. It makes something tingle in Simon’s stomach. "Oh, Snow. I’m so terribly sorry to hear that."

"No you're not."

Baz smiles wider. "No I'm not.”

"That was the night I wrapped the teabags. Did you really not notice them, by the way?"

Baz picks up the wine. He was so delicate at first but now he just chugs it and Simon thinks it might be his new favourite thing. It's not normal - enjoying anything Baz related - but maybe it's different because they’re out of the office. Because they’re not officially rivals anymore. Or maybe Simon’s always been dying to see Baz get a little bit messy.

"It wasn't your best work. And it was dreadfully out of season. I mean, Christmas wrapping paper in June?"

"But did it piss you off, right?" Simon asks. "Like at least just a bit?"

"It was mildly inconvenient," Baz says, and Simon pumps his fist victoriously. He'll take that. _Result_.

"Guess you always outsmarted me with that stuff, eh? You’re a proper evil genius, Baz Pitch."

"I’m sorry, could you repeat that? Did you just admit I _outsmarted_ you?”

"I - I just mean you're more suited to being a villain, that's all! What with your hair and uh… your coat. The black one? Pretty villainy, if you ask me."

“That’s it? You’re judging my entire character on the fact that I have naturally dark hair and own a black coat?”

“That and the five hundred things you’ve done to wind me up, yeah.”

"Alright," Baz concedes. "I suppose I’ll give you that.”

A soft beat of silence settles.

“I mean it though,” Simon admits. “I was never as good at all that plotting stuff.”

"You know what your problem is?” Baz says. “You're too good."

"Good? At what?"

"Just... _good_. I don't know. In your core or something. You're warm and you're good and you care about people. That's why it doesn't come naturally to you to dream up evil plots."

Simon freezes. Did he hear that right? Did Baz just… say something nice? His fingers bump clumsily against Baz’s as he pulls the wine bottle from his hands, and Christ, is that all that’s left? He should’ve bought another one (two more. He should’ve swiped the tequila from downstairs) because he’s far too sober to handle Baz saying he's _warm_ and _good_ on a rooftop under the stars. He really wasn't expecting that.

"I… I put toaster crumbs in your drawer once,” he confesses helplessly.

“I can think you’re an irritating menace and a good person. They're not mutually exclusive."

“No,” Simon shakes his head. “You don’t think I’m good? You hate me. You think I'm a terrible horrible crumb monster.”

“What _is_ it with you and crumbs?”

“You don’t. You can’t _._ You were such an arse to me from the moment I arrived. You-”

“I was pissed off,” Baz says. “Perhaps childishly so. At Mage for dumping the training on me when it was clearly his job. At _you f_ or being good, when I was used to being the best. I was pissed off and... I don’t know. Maybe I'm not good at my core. Maybe I'm an awful person who takes pleasure in bullying people who don’t deserve it.”

“You’re not,” Simon says, so forcefully that he even takes himself by surprise. “I mean, yeah, you’re a dick sometimes. Or, like… most times. You’re a proper full-on wanker, but - but I don’t think you’re _evil in your core_ or whatever."

"You tried to start a chain email about how evil I am just _last month._ "

"Yeah, but-" Simon rubs at his neck. "I dunno. Maybe I wasn't looking at the whole picture? Maybe I was ignoring any good stuff so I could justify winding you up?"

Baz just gawks at him. “How can you say that?”

"Because I hear you on the phone every day. Talking to old Doris about how much she misses her husband for ages without even trying to grab a sale. Helping your sister with her homework on your lunch break. You're always topping up the office coffee and you help anyone that's not me so patiently when they've got a problem and all this stuff between us... it was never just you, was it? I think we can agree that we were both knobs here.”

Baz looks all serious and anguished and Simon's not even sure why he wants to reassure him after everything, but he _does_. He bumps his shoulder against Baz’s and holds out the last of the wine.

“Here,” he says. “Finish it.”

“It’s fine. You bought it.”

“Nah, go for it. Consider it thanks for the biscuits. ”

Baz shakes his head as he accepts it. “You’re so easy to please, Snow. Perhaps if I’d offered you food on your first day then… then everything would’ve been different.”

“Probably. Pretty sure I mostly fancied Agatha because she gave me carrot cake once.”

Baz stares down at his feet, and Simon wishes he knew what he was thinking. Does he regret the way that things turned out? The fact that they’ve worked side by side, all this time, and they’ve never really talked. Not like this.

"Typical isn't it?” Simon mutters. “We have our first decent conversation and it’s the night that you’re leaving.”

“I thought you'd be happy about that. I thought all your dreams would be coming true.”

“So did I. I thought I’d be overjoyed. I should be so bloody happy about it, but…"

“But what?” Baz asks.

"But I think I was enjoying it? Winding you up, seeing what you’d come up with next... In a weird, fucked up way, it was fun.”

"Fun,” Baz scoffs, and he shakes his head again.

But somehow, Simon feels like he gets it. Like maybe he feels the same.

They're sitting so much closer now. So close that when Baz moves his knee it bumps against Simon’s. He’s sure it’s accidental because why wouldn’t it be? Baz’s legs take up half the space in any existing room, it just makes sense. It shouldn’t be a big deal, but they’re touching now, in more places than one. Shoulders. Legs. It’s a _lot._

Simon’s never touched Baz before, not really. He always kind of assumed his skin would be as ice-cold as the rest of him. But he’s soft and warm, and Simon doesn’t know what to make of it. He doesn't know why it makes him feel so flushed and tingly. He’s completely overheating. So warm he can barely stand it.

Simon shifts away and shuffles down, so he’s lying flat on his back.

Baz peers down at him. "What are you doing?"

"Stargazing," Simon says, pointing up to distract from his flushing face. "Nice, aren’t they? I like ‘em. Nice stars."

Baz tilts his head up, and Simon stares at his long neck. At the sharp curve of his jaw. "Those aren't stars,” he says. “That's just light pollution from Canary Wharf."

"They're _stars._ Come look."

Baz lowers himself down tentatively, and it's even _worse_. Because he’s lying right there, dark hair fanning out majestically, almost brushing Simon's cheek and… and he’s so _fit._ Simon has always kinda been aware of it, but did he ever really acknowledge it? How handsome he is - his eyes and his mouth and his skin.

Simon looks away, back up at the sky, his cheeks burning even hotter. How the hell did they end up here? Just Simon and his nemesis, stargazing on a roof. Why did they only figure this out now, when everything’s coming to an end? Why -

“Why are you leaving?" Simon blurts out.

Baz hesitates for a moment before he answers. "Oh, you know. This isn't exactly a lifelong career, is it?"

"But we've got a good team. Nice office. Great view from the roof, even if the concrete does your back in.”

“It’s decent, I’ll admit. But my new job has spreadsheets. I love spreadsheets "

"Who loves spreadsheets?"

"I do. I like the formulas. They're soothing.'

“You can’t expect me to believe that.”

“It’s true,” Baz insists.

"But that's not the real reason, is it? You might as well tell me. It can’t get any weirder than us two chatting like normal people, can it?"

Baz exhales. Simon listens to him breathe. Once, twice, three times. "If you must know, I was seeing someone. And he broke it off. He thought I was more interested in my job. More specifically... with someone that I work with."

Simon’s mouth falls open. His mildly tipsy mind races to catch up. Baz. _Seeing someone._ Interested in _someone he works with_. He’d guess Agatha (that’d explain a lot) but he said _he_ , so... does that mean it'd have to be a bloke? Is it Niall? Gareth? Surely it’s not Gareth.

Simon tries to breathe normally, but all that comes out are a couple of tortured wheezes. This feels _wrong._ It hits like the shock of seeing your teacher in the post office or the girl from the Asda checkouts out clubbing. People exist in bubbles sometimes. You don’t expect them to have anything else going on. And Simon never, ever expected Baz to have a life outside of work. Especially not one that involved kissing blokes.

“Who?” He manages to splutter out. “Is it Niall?”

“No, it’s not Niall," Baz says, his voice thick with exasperation. “Look, the details don’t matter. I’m just saying, it was a bit of a reality check. I realised that perhaps I was a little too involved. So when a new opportunity arose, I decided to take it.”

"Oh,” Simon says. “So - so that’s it then? You’re not even gonna tell 'em?"

"Tell who?"

"Your office person."

"No,” Baz says firmly. “Not a chance. Absolutely not.”

“Why? Are you gonna get back together? With your… bloke. When you move jobs?”

“No,” Baz says again, and Simon lets out the breath he didn’t realise he was holding in. “I'll just proceed as usual and continue to be desperately alone.”

Simon reaches out to find Baz’s arm and gives it a single, awkward pat. It’s kind of distracting - how firm and muscular it feels. Baz always types really fast. Does that give you muscles? Typing at the speed of light?

“I-It’ll be alright, you know," he says. "Plenty more fish and all that. I mean, _man-fish_ , if that's what you like. Or… do you like any kind of fish? Loads of options then, aren't there?

Simon wants to bang his head against the concrete. Fish. _Fish?_

"Are you asking if I'm gay or for seafood recommendations?"

Simon throws his arm over his face. It muffles his voice a bit, which is a blessing. God knows he needs to stop talking. "I'm not even sure myself."

"Yes, I'm gay, and yes, I know several good seafood restaurants, although I would have to look them up to recall their names."

Baz is staring at him. Simon can feel it even with his eyes closed. He feels him shift, but he doesn’t dare to move his arm back. He doesn’t dare to move at all, because he doesn’t know how to react. Baz is gay and Simon can’t get the image out of his mind. He can’t stop thinking about Baz kissing blokes. (What’s his type, anyway? Posh blokes called _Lambert the Third_? Guys with hipster beards and waistcoats who queue for hours to eat breakfast in Shoreditch? Guys with big muscles and bigger - no, God, don’t think about that.) The image is right there and Simon hates it. He hates it so _fucking_ much. He doesn't want some other bloke to run his fingers through Baz's hair, or to shove him back against the wall when he’s being properly smarmy and kiss him ‘til he’s breathless.

Because Simon wants to do that.

He's _jealous._

Does he like Baz? Does he fancy him? Is it the wine? The stars? The thought of never seeing him again? Or has this been buried somewhere all along? Was it hiding in plain sight during every fight in the office kitchen? Is that why Simon thinks about him all the time? (First thing on a morning. At night. On the tube. In the _shower_.) Why he’s felt so completely out of it since he heard that he was leaving?

Fuck.

Shit bollocks bastard fuck _._

_He likes Baz._

Simon wants to run laps around the roof. He wants to lean over and press Baz into the concrete and ask if he's over-reacting. If it's normal that his heart is racing, threatening to beat out of his chest.

If it’s possible that (no, it can’t be) -

If there’s a chance that (surely there’s no way) -

That Baz’s office bloke could be _him._

It’s completely impossible, but Simon lets himself imagine, for a brief moment, what would happen if he was. Would that mean that this isn’t the end? (It would, wouldn't it?) Does Simon want that? (Yes. He wants it so much _._ )

This is a lot. It’s too much to handle. He can’t catch his breath.

Simon wants to sink into the ground and live out the rest of his life as a paving stone, because that’d make everything so much simpler wouldn’t it? Paving stones are chill blokes who stay cool even when they’re being trampled on. They don’t have to deal with these levels of gay panic. (Bi panic? _Boy_ panic.)

“Snow?” Baz asks, which sort of brings him back to earth. Reminds Simon that he’s just lying on a roof having a casual little meltdown.

He dares to move his arm back. Baz is sitting up now, blinking down at Simon, just his face against the stars. His hair is falling forward in dark waves, and Simon wants to touch it. To run his fingers through it just to see how Baz reacts. Is that mental? To assume that it’s something he’d like. ( _Would_ he like it?)

“Alright?” Simon says, aiming for a casual tone and landing somewhere between desperate and squeaky.

“Ah,” Baz says. “So you are alive.”

“Yeah. Sorry, I just had a… bit of a wine moment, I think?”

“Ah,” Baz says again, and Simon’s sure he must sound crap and unconvincing.

“Baz, I-” he starts.

“I think-” Baz says at the same time. “Oh. Go ahead.”

“No, uh. You first.”

“I was thinking that…” Baz takes a breath. “That perhaps it’s time to head back downstairs”

“Oh,” Simon’s heart sinks. “Right. Yeah. Guess you’ve missed a lot of your own party.”

Baz nods and climbs to his feet. He holds out his hand and Simon sits up and takes it. He lets Baz pull him up from the concrete, and he’s dying to say something. He’s literally begging his useless brain to come up with anything, but when he opens his mouth, not a single word comes out.

All he knows is that he wants to stay here longer.

He wants to stay up here all night until the stars go out.

He wants to squeeze Baz’s hand and ask if he’s the only one who feels like his entire world is shifting. The only one who feels like he’s about to topple over from the weight of the huge feeling that’s settled itself in the depths of his chest.

But Baz lets go too soon. He strides off across the roof and all Simon can do is grab his backpack and the empty wine bottle and follow him.

By the time he catches up, Baz is already by the lift, pressing the button to summon it. Simon walks through the doorway and suddenly everything’s too sharp and bright.

Baz turns back towards him. They stand there, face to face.

“Well, Snow,” he says. “I suppose I ought to thank you. For letting me stay up here. For the terrible wine and the surprisingly pleasant company. For being a fierce competitor, throughout all this. I’m not sure anyone will ever irritate me so thoroughly again. And for that... I’m grateful.”

Simon nods helplessly. “Me too,” he says. “This was… this was fun.”

Baz turns away, towards the sound of the lift arriving. Simon just about manages to follow him inside.

“Are you heading back down to find Bunce?”

“Yeah,” Simon says. “Why? Aren’t you?”

Baz shakes his head, hitting the number 7, then the button for the ground floor. “I think I’m going to head home. Having a civilised conversation with you has been quite strange enough. I fear if I stay any longer, I’ll end up tap dancing on the tables with Mage.”

Simon smiles weakly. His stomach twists. The lift surges into action. It felt like it took years, on that day Simon pressed all the buttons, but today it seems to whiz down in seconds. They’re stopping at the 7th floor in no time.

“Well then,” Baz says. “I suppose this is it.”

“Yeah. Um. But listen. Before you go-"

The doors open to Rhys and Gareth, waiting just outside.

“Going down?” Rhys asks.

“Nice one,” says Gareth. “Fucking dying for a cig here.”

Simon steps aside to give them space to get in. He turns back towards Baz and swallows down a lump in his throat. Why does this feel so _awful?_ Like his whole world’s crashing down.

“Bye,” he says, though he’s not sure Baz even hears him over Gareth and Rhys's chaotic chatter.

Baz meets his eyes, just as the doors start to close. “Goodbye, Simon,” he says softly.

 _Simon._ Baz called him _Simon._

He's so surprised that he reaches out on impulse, pressing the open button, just so he can make him say it again, but it's too late. It’s already going down. Floor 6... Floor 5…

It's over.

Simon stares at the metal doors and his head’s spinning. Is that really it? They’ll just… never see each other again? He doesn’t know where Baz is going to work. He doesn’t even have his number. The chances of bumping into him - in a huge city like this - are impossible.

Simon feels so sick and so sure that he doesn’t want Baz to go. He doesn’t want a boring life without him in it. He can’t let things end like this. He’s got to -

He’s got to go after him.

“Ah, there you are!” A tipsy sounding voice chirps. Simon turns and spots Penny rushing over to him. “Where have you been? I’ve texted you at least 3 times.”

Shepard follows closely behind, cradling Agatha’s dog in his arms. “Hey Simon! Have you met Lucy? Isn’t she adorable? Hey Lucy, say hello to-”

“I don’t have time for this,” Simon snaps, and both of them look taken aback. “Sorry,” he says, thrusting his backpack and the empty wine bottle into Penny’s hands. “Will you hold these for me? I’ve got to chase after Baz.”

“Oh, not this again,” Penny says. “It’s _over._ You’ve got to let this whole thing go.”

“That’s the thing though,” Simon says, “I don’t think I _can._ ”

Penny looks thoroughly confused. “What do you-”

“I’ll explain later, okay?”

“Explain what?” Penny shouts after him. “Simon!”

He doesn’t have time to wait for the lift. By the time it makes it back up here, Baz might already be gone. Simon swings through the door that leads to the stairs and legs it down them, leaping down some of them two at a time. It's kinda dangerous. He’s been drinking. He could fall and break his legs. But he’ll risk it. He has to.

Simon dives out of the automatic doors when he finally makes it down, almost crashing into Gareth and a bunch of smokers. He looks around the illuminated street - heart pounding - and he spots him, his tall lithe frame and his dark hair, making his way across the small paved courtyard outside the office.

It’s not too late. 

“Baz!” He yells. “Hey, wait!”

“At it again, _”_ one of the smokers mutters as he charges past them.

“Can’t even let him leave in peace.”

Simon wants to tell them to piss off, but he wants to catch Baz before he reaches the taxi rank more.

“Baz!” he shouts again “God, will you just… slow down…”

Baz stops this time, dead still in the middle of the courtyard. He turns slowly, his eyes wide with surprise, and Simon uses the last of his energy to close the distance between them.

“Snow? Did you forget something?”

Simon opens his mouth but he’s panting so heavily he can barely get the words out. “Can you just. Give me a sec. To catch my breath?”

He leans forward, hands on his knees, and from behind him somewhere the smokers whoop.

“Oh my God, he’s gonna punch him!”

“Fight! Fight! Fight!”

Baz places a hand on his arm, and Simon’s brain short circuits. "Let’s do this without an audience, shall we?"

Simon manages to nod.

Baz leads him around the corner to a small deserted space between two office buildings, and it feels better here. Like there’s more space to breathe. Simon’s lungs are still burning, but he can just about stand up straight. Baz is looking at him all expectantly and it occurs to him that he doesn’t actually know what he's going to say. He didn’t really think that far ahead.

“Baz,” he starts. “I forgot to, um. Well. The thing is."

Baz arches an impatient eyebrow. “Yes?”

“Um. Actually, I-”

"What is it?”

Simon growls in frustration. "I'm - I'm getting to it!”

“Well, sometime tonight would be ideal.”

“I nearly died running down all those stairs to catch you! You could try to be a little more grateful, maybe?”

“Grateful for what? That you chased me down here so you can pant breathlessly in my face? That you’ve utterly confused me from the first moment you parked yourself beside me like a crumb-breathing dragon and-”

Simon grabs hold of Baz’s shoulders. He digs his fingers into the soft silky fabric of his shirt and leans up so he can find Baz's mouth and collides with his lips so forcefully that the whole thing is probably at least 10% headbutt, but the rest of it? The other 90%? It's a _kiss._ He’s kissing Baz.

Baz is all still at first. He's so tense under Simon's hands that Simon’s sure he’s fucked it, and he’s about to step back and blurt out an apology and go chase after that bottle of tequila, and then it happens. Baz’s fingertips settle softly on his back and he pulls Simon closer. His lips move. _Baz is kissing him back._

He tastes like wine - deep and rich and addictive. He touches Simon, more firm and deliberate, and Simon worries briefly about how sweaty he must be, but he decides to just go with it. Baz doesn't seem to mind. He presses his whole body against him, and it just feels so _right._

Simon’s wanted this for so long. He knows that now. He wishes he'd known it sooner - that he could one-up him like this - although, is he actually one-upping Baz? Does Simon really have the upperhand here? He feels like he could surrender at any second. Just melt into Baz’s arms and do anything he wants for the rest of his life, anything to get him to sigh like that again, all soft against Simon’s mouth.

He wants this. All of it. He’s never felt anything like this.

When he finally pulls back, Baz is gazing at him. His cheeks are flushed and his hair’s a mess and for once, he doesn’t have a sharp comeback. He’s speechless.

“That’s, er,” Simon drags his hands through his curls. “That’s what I forgot.”

He waits for Baz to say something. To react. God, he hopes Baz doesn’t punch him. If Simon hobbles back to the smokers with a black eye, he’ll never hear the end of it.

“Well,” Baz says after a long moment. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

Simon smiles sheepishly. “Neither was I, to be honest.”

“You didn’t expect to kiss me?”

“Well… no. Not exactly?”

Baz frowns. “If this is your final prank, then I’ll murder you. I’ll disembowel you right here if this is a joke.”

“Is that really your first thought here?” Simon asks incredulously. “Your mind just happens to go straight to disembowelment?”

“What am I _supposed_ to think?”

“I don’t know. That you liked kissing me? That you wouldn’t mind doing it again?"

Baz's teeth graze over the lips Simon just kissed. They’re pinker than they were before. Simon can tell that even in the dark. "I liked kissing you,” he admits softly. “And I wouldn't mind doing it again. So if you’re not being serious, then...”

“I _am_. I spent so long thinking I hated you. You know that, don’t you? I mean, I didn’t exactly try to hide it. But tonight I kinda worked it out. I wasn’t just mad _at_ you, Baz. I’m mad _about_ you. That’s why I chased you down here. Because you drive me crazy every single day, but... but I don’t want you to go.”

"Well, it’s a little late to take it back now. I’ve already handed in my notice.”

“I don’t mean work. We’re shit coworkers. Everyone can see that. But this doesn’t have to be the end, does it? I mean... unless you want it to be.”

Baz just looks at him. His eyes are so soft that Simon almost melts right there. “I’m mad about you too, if that's what you're asking. I like you so much that even someone who’s never met you can tell.”

Simon’s heart flips. “Then let’s do this. Let's do... something."

"What did you have in mind?"

“Well. What if we go to the pub one day. Say, tomorrow, for example. We’ll get a couple of pints. Food if we're hungry.”

“You’re always hungry.”

“I’m always hungry,” Simon agrees. “So we go for drinks and then-"

"And then?" Baz repeats.

"And then we get to know each other. Like normal people who don’t sabotage each other. Talk about our most embarrassing moments and our dreams and the football and all that. And then…”

"And then…"

"I'll invite you back to mine for a coffee. You'll probably take the piss because it's instant and not your fancy stuff, but you'll drink it out of politeness-"

“What brand?”

"Er, I dunno. Nescafe, I think?"

" _Nescafe?"_ Baz repeats, faking a gag.

"It's Gold Blend!” Simon says, and Baz gags again. “Fine. Whatever. Maybe I’ll buy some posh coffee, just for you. Or maybe we’ll just skip all that-"

"And why would we do that?"

"Because you're an awful snob?"

Baz leans even closer. His voice is barely louder than a murmur. "Try again."

Simon flushes. "Because I'll kiss you again. Like, a _lot._ I’ll kiss you so much you’ll barely have the chance to come up for air. Because we’ve got a year’s worth of frustration to work through and it’s hard work, not kissing you right now. I honestly really wanna do it again.”

“No,” Baz says, and Simon’s heart sinks.

“No?”

“You should come back to mine,” he says, eyes twinkling under the dim lights. “Good coffee. And no roommates. And fuck tomorrow. What’s wrong with tonight?”

Simon can’t stop smiling. He’s so chuffed he can’t keep the grin off his face. “Alright. But you might have to tell him though.”

“Hm?”

“Your office bloke. Tell him that you won't have time to obsess over him anymore because you're gonna be busy with me. You will get weekends off, right?”

“Yes," Baz says. "Finally it all falls into place. I’ve been plotting this one for a while, Simon. Wondering how to infiltrate your home and replace all your things. I found a huge box of Barbies in my family home recently and I thought of you instantly.”

Simon huffs. He can't help himself. “Everything's a joke to you, isn’t it?”

Baz grins wider and tugs him closer. “Not this, Simon,” he says. “I’ve dreamt of this for so long. Never, ever this.”

***

The office rumour mill is rife with reasons Baz left, and most of them involve Simon. There’s endless speculation in the break room about who dealt the final blow. Some say Simon glued Baz to his office chair and pushed him down the stairs. Others say that Baz poisoned Simon’s lager and that’s why he dashed out of the leaving party. Simon even hears a rumour about Baz being the illegitimate father of Charlotte's baby. He texts him that one the second he hears it.

Charlotte's pretty surprised about Baz leaving when she finally returns from her maternity leave, blissfully unaware of the endless speculation.

"Baz left?" She asks. "You must be chuffed, eh Simon? Finally got him out of your hair."

Simon tries not to blush as he thinks of Baz's hands the night before, roaming through his curls as they snogged on his posh leather sofa.

"Oh yeah." He nods. "Definitely. Reckon things worked out for the best there."

“Brilliant,” she says. “Are you leaving early?”

“Yep.” Simon grins. “Got a date.”

He swings on his backpack. The bottle of wine he picked up on his lunch break clinks against his back. (Screwcap just to make Baz sneer. He can’t make things _too_ easy now, can he?)

Baz is sitting on the wall outside the office, scrolling on his phone in his villainy black coat. He's been wearing it more now the weather's getting colder, and he looks so good in it that Simon's wondered a few times if he genuinely has a thing for evil supervillains. Or maybe it's just a Baz thing. He _does_ look good in everything. He stands and waves and Simon's heart flips as he heads towards him.

He hopes someone looks down at them from the office window. He can only imagine the rumours that'd start if someone saw them kissing in the courtyard outside the office. If someone noticed the way they smile at each other, so private and warm.

“You’re disappointingly on time,” Baz says. “I was hoping to sneak in and steal your stapler, for old time’s sake.”

“Fat chance,” Simon says. “Told my mate at security to keep a lookout for you. There’s a wanted poster in his office now. We named you _Stealin’ Stan_.”

"What kind of name is that?"

“He’s a Scooby-Doo villain. You wanted to be one, remember? He's kinda got your hair actually. Look."

Baz squints at Simon's phone in disgust. He swiftly turns on his heel. "I'm leaving. I don't have to deal with this kind of slander."

Simon catches his hand. "If you leave then you won't get your sushi."

Baz sighs and turns slowly back towards him. “I suppose I could stay. But only for the food. I can’t think of any other reasons.”

“That's good. This is a working environment, you know. We wouldn't want you engaging in any inappropriate flirting, would we?

Baz grabs his hand and tugs him back close. "How's this for inappropriate?"

Simon hums. "About 5 post-it notes out of 10, I'd say. Reckon you'll have to try a bit harder."

"I've got a whole bunch of schemes up my sleeve. Just you wait."

“Nah,” Simon says. “I reckon you’ve gone soft.”

“And why do you think that is?”

“Because of this?”

Simon sneaks another kiss. He really _really_ hopes someone sees it from the window. If he comes back to rumours about them headbutting each other in the courtyard on Monday, he’ll be living.

He keeps their fingers twined together as they head off down the street, and Simon can’t keep the smile off his face. Sure, things might have been fun before, but this?

This is so much better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks so much to anyone who gave this a read - it's pretty silly but I had a lot of fun writing it! Find me over here on [tumblr](https://arca9.tumblr.com/) if you wanna! :)


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